


New Perspective

by HiddlesBatchedSherlollian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:29:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddlesBatchedSherlollian/pseuds/HiddlesBatchedSherlollian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt again! "Could you do one Set at the end of series 3 when he finds out about Moriarty then goes to Molly? ?" Your wish, my dear, is my pleasure to fulfil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Perspective

Sherlock's heart beat a little faster, nervousness stealing through his body as he fiddled with his phone whilst waiting for Mycroft's car to arrive. Since his years away, he had become nervous out in the open, a tremor having developed in his right hand and though he would never admit it to anyone, he felt true fear when he was as exposed as he was now.

Of course, it was an entirely rational fear. When one is hunting down members of a highly skilled network of extremely competent assassins, spies and murderers, one wrong move could cost you your life. He had come extremely close in Kabul, staying in a small hostel for two evenings had let those he was tracking know he was there, and had given them time to plant several pipe bombs in his small room.

Eleven innocents had died.

He clenched his fists, refusing to acknowledge any feelings he had. They had been collateral damage, as Mycroft had said, and the fact that they had lives, families and were going to be missed meant nothing. He could not allow himself to feel.

Molly's reproachful face came to mind, her glossy brown hair pulled loosely into a ponytail behind her head and her mouth pinched in a disapproving frown.

They were loved, Sherlock.

I know, Molly. I'm sorry they died, and that it's my fault.

She had been coming to him in his mind palace when he needed her for months, even before she had slapped him for "returning" to the drug life, offering him sweetness and support, occasionally giving insight from a pathological viewpoint which Sherlock ordinarily wouldn't have considered.

He liked having her there.

She helped him through the night mares and the guilt. Made him accept responsibility, but without being cruel about it, much like she was in life. She was his exact opposite and he appreciated that about her.

Finally, the car arrived, pulling slowly to a stop beside the curb of the pavement. Once inside, checking the driver wasn't armed or in any way not affiliated with his brother, he allowed himself to relax slightly.

He still had to work out what he was going to say to her. Sentiment truly was not his forte.

However, he was worried about her. The Moriarty thing had almost destroyed her last time, and only once he was back and Jim confidently dead did she become more outgoing and confident, not taking any of his insults any more.

Calling her forth again, he studied her in his mind, taking note of the gained weight – a pound and a half – the style of her hair, how it had gone from vaguely childlike, messy and clumsy even when she really tried, to confident and.. smooth. He caught himself wondering what her hair would feel like, if it would be a soft as it looked.

He tried to imagine how she would look at the news of Jim's return. He thought she'd cry, or retreat into herself, her eyes glazed and horrified. He hoped she wasn't too bad. He hoped to whatever deities existed – if any – that she would accept his proposition.

He gazed absently out of the window, watching London fly by, going in the opposite direction to what he had expected. Molly's flat was near Bart's, wasn't it?

"We're going the wrong way. Why are we going in the direction of the docks?"

"It was Mr Holmes' request that you be brought to Miss Hooper, and she 'appens to be at the docks. Alright?"

"…It's Doctor Hooper…" He grumbled to himself, insulting the middle aged alcoholic with marriage problems, three cats and a heart defect under his breath.

He wanted to see her. Not desperately, but as close to desperation a Holmes ever came. He needed her to tell him that he wasn't doing the wrong thing, that he wasn't a monster for killing Magnussen.

He hated the feeling, an adrenaline high and a feeling of euphoric despair, like all the good in him had been forcefully ejected as he had pulled that trigger. Leaving him empty and numb.

Until he had been told that he was going to stay here. His first thought had been of her, then of John and Mary and little girl Watson, then of Moriarty.

He loathed the man even more now he knew first hand the sick pleasure of taking another's life. He could not allow him to ruin Molly any further.

He leaned his head against the headrest wearily, wishing for more time. He had no idea what to say to her. He never knew what to say to her, really, he just relied on blind panicked instinct, which always ended in insulting her.

I'm sorry Molly, there was nothing else I could do. What do you need?

That sounded completely unlike the man she knew him as.

Molly, I need you to tell me what I can do. I will catch him.

Still unlike him.

I need your help.

That would have to do. Short, concise, Sherlock all over. And he hadn't insulted her.

The car shuddered suddenly, warehouses flashing past him in a dark barely noticed blur. He had to do this right, or not at all.

Not doing it wasn't even an option.

He tried once more.

Molly, I think it would be prudent for both your personal safety and my peace of mind, not to mention to deter John from nagging me, for you to come and live in Baker Street with me for the foreseeable future.

Perfect.

The car rolled to a stop outside a clean, slightly sea battered shipping container, the door slightly open and a thin stream of light cut into the darkness. Breathing deeply, he threw to car door open and made his way swiftly over to the glimmer of light, pausing in the entranceway to take in the sight before him.

Molly stood, staring at him, eyes slightly red, cheeks pinched, an old warm jumper hanging off one shoulder, comfy jeans with a tear in the knee and fluffy socks making her look worn but homely. Mycroft stood behind her, leaning on his faithful old umbrella, a scathing look marring his features.

"I'm glad to see you made it here alright, brother mine. Miss-"

"Doctor Hooper." Sherlock practically growled at his brother.

"Yes. Doctor Hooper was just asking why I had brought her here."

"Sherlock?" Her eyes met his, firm but soft, needing comfort but wanting desperately not to need it.

"MollyIthinkitwouldbeprudentforbothyourpersonalsafetyandmypeaceofmind, not to mention to deter John from nagging me, foryouto...come and live in...Baker Street with me for the foreseeable future." He sucked in a deep breath, having garbled his carefully thought out proposition in one breath.

Well bugger.

She stared at him, confused and hopeful.

"You... want me... to move into Baker Street?"

"Temporarily, of course. Just until Mycroft and I have managed to get to the bottom of this Moriar...of this mess." He attempted a smile, which he knew was forced and fake looking, but needing to at least try, for her.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

**Author's Note:**

> I have one or two more chapters to come, by the way.


End file.
